Hands of a Musician, Heart of a Soldier
by DominaEcca
Summary: Hetalia Human AU: In 1941, Gilbert Beilschmidt is wounded on the front lines and sent back home to Rosenheim, Germany. Coming home is nothing like what he expected. Rated for cursing, adult themes, and some violence and mild gore, more detailed warnings inside. Prussia x Austria is the only pairing in this story.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** So, this story was a request, and it will probably be updated slower than Northern Waters, which is part of this same AU. Still, I've got the plot pretty much finished for this one, so I'll be sure to add chapters as soon as I can. However, if there are any plot suggestions or anything I may miss in dealing with this pairing, feel free to write a review or message me.

As for the **warnings**, this story opens with Gilbert on the battlefield, although there isn't anything too graphic or gory depicted. Later on there will be, however, since he will suffer from mild PTSD. There may (will almost certainly) be sexual themes in later chapters, although again, it shouldn't be too explicit. I'll still put warnings over those chapters, though. Now, I really want to warn any potential readers that there will be a character death a few chapters in, although it shouldn't be much of a surprise. It's not a main character, but since there aren't many characters in this story to begin with, I wanted to warn you to be fair.

Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

He stood alone, still breathing heavily though the battle was over, for now. The air was thick and heavy with hot smoke and dirt, and it burned in his throat. He coughed hard, feeling the gritty dirt caking in his mouth. His ears were still ringing loudly from the artillery fire and it left him grappling with the feeling of vertigo. He thought himself as one who knew his way around the battlefield, but they weren't all the same. Gilbert found himself disoriented.

He took a few shallow-feeling steps forward, felt that this was intensely wrong, and stopped. Something told him to try to look for the sun to help him regain his sense of direction, but Gilbert quickly learned that he couldn't turn his head. Panic seized him almost immediately following the confusion. He might have thrashed around in a desperate attempt to move, he certainly tried to cry out, but every action he tried to take seemed to lose its momentum before it could be completed.

What the hell was going on?

It took him a long time, much longer than he would have expected of himself, to realize what was happening. It had been nearly three days since he stood upon that battlefield.

Even though he began to understand, he still saw smoke and dust swirling up into the evening sky above him as he came to realized he was lying on his back. But now, he knew why there was no sun. The brown sky above him finally stopped churning, and materialized into something he was able to fix his eyes on. Cloth. He was in a medical tent.

After another day and a half, his memory returned to him as complete as it would ever be. He remembered standing on the field before his legs collapsed beneath him suddenly. The battle had been over, and for a terrifying moment he had thought they had been fooled, and that their enemy hadn't really retreated, but then German shouting rang out from the direction the bullet had come, and he yelled back louder. He had been shot by a fellow German solider.

Jolted by the terrifying notion that he might have lost his leg, he struggled intensely to move again, even if it was just to wiggle his toes. The movements were stopped by a hot bolt of pain, which shot up his spine almost directly to his eyes. It was such a pure and powerful sensation that it colored his vision completely white for a time. The irrational fear of going blind from sheer pain prevented him from trying to move further.

Then, he heard voices nearby, although they came to him slowly and were followed by eerie echoes, almost as though he were underwater. At first, the noises meant nothing; he just squeezed his eyes shut and wished they would stop. Then, a rougher, tougher voice cut through his daze.

"We might have to amputate it," the voice said and then grunted. "Poor bastard."

Gilbert lost consciousness again with a single, grimly hopeful thought: at least he still had a leg to lose.

* * *

Days passed in strange ways; sometimes he felt as though his senses took turns being on alert for the time he was awake. Such as once when he was awakened by a horrid smell, and proceeded to be aware of nothing else but the wretched, disgusting odor for the entire day. After that, his body spent another day shifting between feeling unbearably hot, and bitterly cold. He feared it was due to some kind of fever, but he had never suffered a sickness that could shift his temperature so bizarrely, and it stopped the next day.

In the midst of this, he recalled wanting to go home. However, it wasn't the desire to escape the war, nor was it the search for comfort that fueled this oddly clear notion. There was something there, something wrong. He was needed. Or, he thought he was needed. It was just important that he went home. The longer he pondered this in the short, precious period when the drugs wore off enough to let his mind clear, and before the pain overwhelmed him until the next strong dose, he thought that it might have something to do with his grandfather.

An infinite, blurry time passed, and then he was sharply yanked from his haze by that same, hard voice that had reached him the first time.

"Soldier!" the voice was stern, but not unkind; it reminded him of his grandfather's voice.

He must have responded because the voice lowered a little when he heard it again. "Do you know where you are? Can you tell me your name?"

Gilbert groaned. His throat was dry, and when he swallowed, it ached. The medicine was wearing off now, and the pain was starting to scramble his thoughts, making it hard to focus on the man's questions.

"What is your name, soldier?" the voice demanded of him again.

His eyes cracked open a bit, able to see the shadowy outline of a figure beside him.

"I need to go home," he croaked.

His words were faint, almost inaudible, but the man leaned forward and appeared to catch them.

"Let's just start with your name," he insisted.

Uselessly trying to swallow again, he opened his mouth. "Gil…Gilbert Beilschmidt. I need to get to Rosenheim,"

A higher voice mumbled something a little ways away and the doctor sighed through his nose.

"He's not ready yet. Give him his dose." Then he turned back to him. "We'll talk more soon, Gilbert. Try to rest."

Before he could try to speak again, a cold wave flooded through him, and the already-blurry lines suddenly bled into each other, smearing his vision until the pain retreated and everything went black as he faded away.

Rosenheim…he needed to get to Rosenheim.

* * *

It felt like months passed before he was able to honestly wake up and think without being overwhelmed by pain or drugs. However, the first time he was able to sit up and look around, the relief of being able to move was quickly replaced by a feeling similar to dismay. The people surrounding him were the cause of the horrific stench that hung in the air like a noxious gas. The man directly beside him was missing almost half of his face, it seemed, including his nose and his left eye. He was crying from his right. Gilbert thought he was going to be sick.

"Ah, good. You're up." A different voice suddenly addressed him, making him jerk a little and then hiss in pain.

It wasn't the same doctor who had spoken to him before, which made him wary; he felt unbelievably vulnerable. Still, the man checked him over as though he had done it a thousand times, and it was only then that Gilbert saw the bandage on his right thigh. Both legs were still accounted for, however.

"Alright, I have good news and bad news, which do you want to hear first?" he asked.

Annoyed, Gilbert frowned at him. "Tell me it all."

"Well, the good news is you're going home," he offered him a wrinkly smile.

Gilbert did actually consider this good news, and a fair amount of relief washed over him. After all, going home was the only clear thought he'd had since being shot. On the other hand, if his injury was bad enough to send him home…

"The bad news," the doctor's voice fell, and so did his face as he pushed up a pair of tight-fitting, wire-framed glasses. "The bullet hit your femur bone and fractured it. You didn't need any surgery, and you will be able to walk again, but, not for quite some time. Understand?"

He nodded once as he accepted this, looking down at the thick bandaging that covered most of his thigh and knee, holding his leg straight with something like a splint. It hurt horribly, and now that he knew exactly what was hurt, it seemed to amplify the pain. The doctor nodded understandingly and got up to get him medicine. As he did so the other doctor, the one who had spoken to him before, entered and looked at him as he walked by.

"You're going home, kid." he told him simply.

Gilbert lied back slowly, feeling as though he were still dreaming although the intensity of reality was finally catching up to him. He would get see his grandfather. Somehow, he still knew this was very important, and the knowledge that he would be able to do this helped him to relax a little.

"I'm coming home," he muttered quietly as the doctor returned and his eyes began to close. "I'll see you soon."


	2. Chapter 2

Seven months.

He wouldn't be able to walk for seven months, and even after that he would need some kind of crutch. It honestly frustrated Gilbert to be put in such a feeble state, but for now he was just happy to be home. He remembered why he had been so eager.

Elizabeta, the nurse that took care of his grandfather and his house, had written him a letter expressing her concern for his grandfather's health. He hadn't been so bad when Gilbert and his little brother Ludwig had left, but this past winter had been harsh and he'd had a cough for years that was only getting worse. Once they had gone through hell just to get him into the small house, and set him up in a wheelchair that had an extended place for his leg to rest on, Elizabeta didn't waste time asking if he wanted to rest, and pushed him down the hall to his grandfather's room to see him.

His grandfather was an unbelievably strong man, even in his declining years, but he was quiet. He frowned most of the time, and was very strict, but Gilbert held his grandfather's approval above all else. Ludwig took after him more than Gilbert did, both in appearance and personality, but his grandfather always considered him first, although sometimes he wondered if it was simply because he was older. He had spent nearly his whole life trying to earn his praise; even though he had mostly accepted that his grandfather would always be more proud of his younger brother, but with everything that had happened to Ludwig in the past month…

Elizabeta gently placed him beside the bed and walked around to the other side, and then softly called for him to wake up.

"Herr Beilschmidt,"

"No, if he's sleeping—"

But his grandfather had already opened his eyes. They didn't open sleepily, but instead fixed themselves on Gilbert with impeccable accuracy.

"Gilbert?" he asked, his voice was hoarse, but somehow still firm. "You're home?"

He smiled and nodded at him. "I'm home."

"Why?" he frowned, those heavy brows lowering.

Feeling a little disappointed that he wasn't just happy to see him, he smiled wryly. "When I heard about your condition, I got shot as soon as I could so they'd send me home."

His grandfather frowned even deeper, the old lines in his face detailing his annoyance. "What?"

"He's joking," Elizabeta interjected quietly. "But I told you we got the letter last week. Gilbert was accidently shot by another German soldier."

There was a tense moment of silence.

"You were shot, by a German?" he asked slowly and Gilbert's head tipped forward.

For some reason, his words carried an indescribable amount of shame.

"He couldn't see me very well through the smoke," he muttered.

His grandfather's eyes moved from his own to his white hair, and then he grunted critically. "Does Ludwig know?"

Gilbert's whole body stiffened, making him wince a little. "No, I haven't written to him yet,"

"Have you heard from him?"

"Uh," he swallowed dryly.

The last time he had heard from him, his younger brother had been, to put it bluntly, deserting. His brother was not a coward, nor was he a traitor. The soldiers in his unit had turned on him, making him look to be some kind of spy. There wouldn't have been a trial, not for that. So, Gilbert didn't think of him as a deserter, but he knew he might be the only one. Yet, Ludwig had somehow managed to escape to Sweden, and for now, as far as Gilbert knew, he was safe.

"He's safe; they sent him north. There's not a lot going on there." he muttered.

His grandfather grunted again and closed his eyes.

Gilbert had been ignoring his pain up until then, but then he sighed heavily and it all seemed to overwhelm him.

Elizabeta noticed, and after getting his grandfather set to go back to sleep, she took him and wheeled him out of the room. He stared at the familiar hallway as they headed down to his bedroom, which was off to the left, absently taking note of the small dents that had been made when he and Ludwig would wrestle inside until his grandfather would send them out. That felt like a long time ago. Maybe it was.

Entering his room, he felt a strange rush of emotion, and found himself having to bite his cheeks to keep from crying. It didn't help that Elizabeta noticed that, too.

"Your grandfather loves you," she told him, those kind, green eyes trying to capture his, though he made every effort to avoid them.

He didn't speak. He wasn't going to argue that, but, that didn't mean he completely believed it either. She sighed a little, but helped him into his bed without saying much more. After that she told him she would make dinner and bring it to him when it was ready. He thanked her in a mumble and the door shut.

Gilbert had known Elizabeta for years. She was kind and honest, but he knew she was as lethal as she was beautiful. He had also learned very quickly that she wouldn't stand for any of his advances. According to a confession he had heard only once, she was actually married. She had been forced to sell her wedding ring, and her husband had stayed behind when she left, although she never told him why. She was a Hungarian, and spoke German easily enough, although her accent was identifiable when she was more relaxed. She also had a distinct motherly vibe to her, which both German men grumbled about, but which both men also found impossible to disobey. Still, she was hardly overbearing, and was always very respectful to his grandfather. With that in mind, he didn't get as upset when she would hit him or scold him anymore.

Concluding his thoughts on Elizabeta, he let out a heavy breath and reached for his journal. The old, worn book felt almost heavy with ink, since there wasn't a day that he didn't record something in it. However, he couldn't recall if he had written anything since he'd been shot, so he opened it to the most recent pages and began to look them over. What he saw gave him a strange sickly feeling deep in his stomach.

The first few entries were messy and scribbled, and he could only make out a few words, such as 'home' and 'Ludwig'. After that, all the entries were the same.

'I'm coming home.'

Gilbert slid the pen out of its holder at the back and marked the date. He simply wrote that he had come home. It was honestly all he could bring himself to say. He could write more later, but for the moment he felt sleep creeping up on him, and allowed it to seize him.

As he slept, he dreamed about Sweden. Ludwig was there now, his little brother. He had been injured, shot in the leg. He might have chuckled at that bitter irony. Ludwig was smart, he'd be alright, but the knowledge that he might never see him again weighted heavy on him. He was his brother after all; they were supposed to have been together through this whole thing. Everything had just gone wrong.

When he awoke, he thought about his return from Sweden. Despite the way he usually stuck out in a crowd, Gilbert knew how to move around without being seen if he had to. Yet, when he returned, no one was impressed. He remembered them gasping when he walked into the tent, and one crying out that he was a ghost.

"Oh, no, wait. It's just the albino." he said and they laughed.

It was then he realized he didn't want to be there. He hadn't wanted to come back. No matter where he was, Gilbert felt he didn't really belong. He didn't belong on the battlefield with the others, and he didn't belong back home. He felt as though he had been born out of place.

Still, as he followed his memories, he recalled the following battle, but only pieces. He remember the thick smoke and dust, and the sudden pain to match the sound of a bullet splitting the air. Amidst the confusion and panic and pain, he vaguely thought that others had run to him, but as soon as someone put pressure on his leg to stop the bleeding, he blacked out. After that there was nothing until he awoke in the medical tent.

He felt that strange sickness in his stomach again, and a sudden flash of gory faces crossed his eyes. He squeezed them shut, but they didn't vanish for a few seconds more. Although he was not a strange to the horrors of battle, for some reason his hands were shaking, and when Elizabeta came back with dinner, he was hardly able to eat.


	3. Chapter 3

Two months dragged by torturously. Gilbert was usually confined to his bed or the couch, and if he wanted to move, getting in to the wheelchair without Elizabeta's help was a painful and tiresome ordeal. His grandfather slept most of the time, usually having to be awoken by Elizabeta for meal time, and Gilbert kept his distance. He knew he would ask him about things that made him sick to think about.

These things, however, became more prominent in his mind after a few weeks and he began losing sleep. It started with Gilbert waking up earlier and having a harder time falling asleep, and he tried to blame it on his lack of exercise, but it only got worse. Some nights he hardly slept at all, and then would refuse to get out of bed in the morning. He felt steadily drained, and although Elizabeta would try to help, her main focus was his grandfather, and to keep it that way, he often rejected her offers to assist him.

Once, however, when he was trying to move himself from the couch back into the wheelchair, there was a commotion outside, and a gunshot rang out. Gilbert yelped like a kicked dog and slipped when his body jerked, sending him crashing to the floor. It was a horrid pain, even though he had landed mostly on his uninjured leg, but almost worse than that was the feeling that he couldn't breathe. He was shaking, feeling like his trembling muscles had turned to jelly, and he vaguely remembered Elizabeta gathering him into her arms, trying to console him. After he calmed down and the strange wave of terror passed, he denied being startled. He didn't want her to think that he was jumpy around gunshots now; he was still a soldier. He was trained to be fearless. Yet, over the course of the rest of the day, it began to press harder on his mind. He tried to tell himself that he had just been surprised, that he hadn't expected to hear a gunshot so close to the house, but still he felt uncomfortable about the event.

Another few weeks later, late into the evening, Gilbert had wheeled himself to his room and was about to shut the door when he heard whispering down the hall. He froze and listened.

Elizabeta was telling his grandfather something in a hushed, almost frantic voice. He responded in his low, calm voice, but seemed to understand. Then, she asked a question, or perhaps some kind of request, and there was a tense silence.

His grandfather answered affirmatively.

She immediately began speaking, but he hushed her, and repeated his answer. Gilbert frowned, but then it sounded if she had begun to cry, and his eyes widened.

What had they been talking about?

He knew better than to just go intrude and ask, but he couldn't quiet his mind. Still, despite all of the answers he tried to come up with, he had a feeling deep in his stomach that he would find out soon enough.

* * *

A few days later, Elizabeta left very early in the morning, after checking on his grandfather, and didn't returned until late into the evening. Gilbert had gotten himself up into his wheelchair so that he could help his grandfather if he needed anything, but the request for his help never came. Yet, when Elizabeta arrived, before Gilbert could take himself back to bed, he realized that he heard two sets of footprints enter the house along with hushed voices.

Terror seized him momentarily, feeling utterly weak and vulnerable, but then Elizabeta's lovely form appeared at the end of the hallway, and she smiled at him. She looked incredibly tired, but somehow relieved at the same time. As she made her way down to where he waited just inside his grandfather's room, he saw someone else following her.

A man, but not anyone he had seen before. Almost immediately he figured him to be Elizabeta's husband, and looked him over critically. He was tall, not awkwardly so, but perhaps near Gilbert's height. His hair was a deep, dark color of brown and he was dressed in a long, blue coat with a white collar and black boots. Gilbert could also see that he wore glasses with thin, wire frames, and then he realized that he was looking back at him.

With a start, Gilbert saw that his eyes, which he had initially mistaken for blue, were an intense color of purple. Almost violet. He had never seen eyes like those before. Even when he had gone to Sweden, the one who opened the door for him had a strange color of eyes, but they were dull and gave him chills. These eyes glistened like twin amethysts reduced to liquid pools. Gilbert realized he was staring while unabashedly thinking poetically of this man's eyes, and looked away quickly. He had just never seen eyes like that, that's all.

Elizabeta was still smiling when she entered the room, and walked around the bed to awaken his grandfather. Just like before, his eyes snapped open and instantly spotted the man entering the room.

"Herr Beilschmidt, this is Roderich Edelstein." she introduced him.

He stepped forward and inclined his head, but said nothing.

Gilbert frowned. Elizabeta's last name wasn't Edelstein.

"Your cousin?" he asked after clearing his throat a few times, his voice harsh.

They both nodded.

Annoyed that no one had said anything to him, Gilbert huffed a little and Elizabeta looked at him and frowned for him to be quiet. He frowned back.

"You're welcome to stay here with us, Roderich." his grandfather said after a moment of studying him.

"Thank you, Herr Beilschmidt." he inclined his head again, his tone calm and even, but Gilbert caught the sound of faint relief in his voice.

Elizabeta then quickly walked over and embraced him tightly, and then thanked Gilbert's grandfather as well. She then ushered him out to get him set up in one of the rooms upstairs, and Gilbert looked at his grandfather when they were alone, arching an eyebrow. The elder man's eyes were closed, but he knew he was awake.

Gilbert wanted to ask the question that now rested just inside his mouth, lying on his tongue, but he swallowed hard in an attempt to avoid having to say it aloud.

Although the man, Roderich, held himself in a manner that could convince most of royal blood, Gilbert saw the way his eyes shifted, the way his shoulders weren't as squared as they could be. These were not personal quirks; they were learned behaviors.

He had been trained by a very particular type of fear: persecution.

Gilbert knew who the persecuted were these days, and while he himself only had issues with those whom he met on the battlefield, this could put his grandfather in a very dangerous position. Harboring a wanted person was a crime by all accounts. Gilbert swallowed again.

"Not him. His grandparents, though." his grandfather suddenly answered, saving him from having to ask the question directly.

"What?" although he had already guessed as much, he still was shocked by the action; he had just witnessed his grandfather meeting him for the first time, why would he take such a risk for a stranger?

"You heard me, boy. Now listen, while I'm alive, this is still my house, and if I say he's welcome here, then he is. Understand?" his eyes opened narrowly, pinning Gilbert with a sharp, unwavering expression he had come to expect.

He tried not to wince at the mention of it only being a matter of time until his grandfather's word was no longer law in the household, but nodded quickly. "Yes."

"Good." he sighed heavily, coughing a bit more as he sank into his pillow. "You hear from your brother yet?"

Gilbert thought about lying, about saying that he received a letter saying he was safe and well, but, he couldn't.

"Not yet." he choked out after a moment.

His grandfather grumbled without opening his mouth to actually speak, and Gilbert removed himself from the room, shutting the door behind him. He didn't want to be in there anymore.

As he made his way back to his room, he heard the shuffling of feet above him and sighed bitterly. Gunshots would bother him worse now, he just knew it.

* * *

Journal Entry

_Someone new is living with us now. Elizabeta brought him, his name is Roderich. He's her cousin, and apparently his parents were…well, he's staying with us. Hiding with us, really. I don't know why, Grandpa seemed set on it, though. I wonder if he feels like he owes it to Elizabeta, to help her since she's helped him so much. But still, it's dangerous. As soon as he came in, it was tense. If it says like this, I won't get any sleep at all._

_Earlier, Elizabeta said something about him living in Austria before it was annexed. That would have made him a target there, but it doesn't make sense to bring him here instead. He has purple eyes, though. Not like that guy Ludwig was with, they're different. Like, clearer. Other than that he looks like a nobleman's son…he'd probably faint if I showed him my bandages. Maybe I'll try it; there isn't anything else to do anyway._

* * *

Author's Notes:

Okay, so, a couple of things.

1.) Sorry about having to force a family relation between Roderich and Elizabeta, but I did it for the same reason that I implied she was married. I adore her, and to make sure she doesn't get mixed up in any of the romance, I had to neutralize her character. Blood relation (or close enough) and the sanctity of marriage seemed to do the trick.

2.) During his time, having a Jewish grandparent was enough for a conviction, and this is the reason that Roderich is in hiding. This story won't deal very much with the element of persecution in detail, so as long as you understand this, you'll be able to understand the rest of the story.

3.) As for Gilbert's journal entries, I don't really have a better idea as far as formatting goes, but I know Italics can get annoying. I'd appreciate any reviews with suggestions for the journal entry section (content or formatting) and I'll try to refine it as the story progresses. I would like to keep the element of Gilbert's own writing in the story, but first person is not my specialty.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**

This is the first chapter from Roderich's point of view, yay!

* * *

Roderich had initially been terrified of the idea to move to Germany, but once he was with Elizabeta again he found he felt safer. They weren't as directly related as they claimed, but they had known each other nearly their entire lives, and he was glad to have her company again. However, she was often busy with cleaning and tending to Herr Beilschmidt, whose condition began to worsen with the weather.

He found he had come to rather like the old German; he was firm and steady, and somehow made it out to seem as though he could gather his strength to rise from bed if he desired. They all knew better, but Roderich contributed this habit of masking pain and disability to his military training. Like his grandsons, Herr Beilschmidt had also been a soldier, although he spoke of it rarely. He seemed proud, but quietly so.

Gilbert, on the other hand, was rarely quiet about anything.

At first, he had been utterly struck by his appearance. He had white hair, unlike the kind achieved from age. There was no trace that there had ever been color present. Then, there were his eyes. When he first saw him from the end of the hallway, he had mistaken the vibrant red across his eyes as an injury. Yet, upon moving closer, he had come to realize they were not damaged; he was an albino, the white hair helped to confirm it.

Roderich had always though he had a strange appearance in his own way. He had violet eyes, which he tried to partially hide behind a pair of glasses and occasionally his hand placed upon them. The cause of his strange coloring was what the doctors had called "incomplete albinism". He still had color to his skin and hair, but he burned easily in direct sunlight and it was the cause of his discolored eyes. This had not prepared him to see an actual albino, however.

Not to mention the wheelchair and his heavily bandaged leg had been surprising to see. The man looked like his grandfather in that sense; as though he would have stood up if he had been asked to. Yet, the injury looked severe, and Roderich wondered if he would be able to walk eventually. He had done his own time confined to such a device, but the thoughts were dark, and he shook his head to clear them away.

One thing he was honestly happy to learn was that they had a piano in the house, in the main room on the ground floor. It was old, but once he dusted it and obtained permission from Herr Beilschmidt, it played beautifully. The elder German occasionally praised him on his musical skill, and appeared to enjoy the soft music in the otherwise quiet home, but Gilbert was not so receptive.

He whined and complained to anyone who would listen about the annoyance that was Roderich's passion. Sometimes he could have sworn that the wounded soldier got out of bed purely to come into the main room and criticize everything he did. He didn't like the composers, or the piece was too long. Somehow, he managed to find fault with every note he played. Quickly aware that everyone else ignored Gilbert's complaining, he opted to follow the status quo, and ignored him as well. He couldn't stop himself from occasionally sending him annoyed glances or demanding to know if he had anything better to do, but this only seemed to encourage him, and he always had a snide reply ready. On top of that, he had decided to stick him with a nickname. He now frequently called him Specs, and it annoyed him deeply.

The only thing that kept him from perhaps responding to the antagonisms, besides his own sense of nobility and pride, was the fact that he was always kind and polite to Elizabeta. Although Roderich wouldn't have expected it of the barbaric man, he always thanked his cousin when she assisted him with his wound, or brought him food. Occasionally she would bring him news of his grandfather's condition, and even though it was rarely easy to hear, he thanked her for taking care of him. His attitude completely changed towards Roderich, but the fact that he could exhibit kindness and civility, if only to Elizabeta, helped him to ignore Gilbert's attempts to bother him.

It wasn't until he had been staying in the small house for nearly a month that he saw a more drastic display of the soldier's humanity.

The nights were coming sooner, and the house often fell quiet earlier as a result. Roderich had been making his way to the stairs to retire to his bedroom on the upper level when he heard Herr Beilschmidt speaking. At first, he had thought he was calling for Elizabeta, and moved to call for her, but then he heard Gilbert mutter a low response.

Roderich would have never described himself as a curious person, but this night his curiosity grew until it suddenly bore him a few steps towards the end of the hall, just close enough to listen.

"Just one, just one more letter…"

By now, Herr Beilschmidt's was considerably worse, and he often suffered from fever-like symptoms. Sometimes he rambled senselessly, and sometimes he was as clear as he had been when Roderich met him. Now, he sounded like he was speaking deliriously.

"I know, I know." Gilbert muttered again, sounding as though he were trying to comfort him.

"Why won't he write home, Gilbert? Just one more letter from him. I want to hear from Ludwig just once more." his grandfather continued.

By now, Roderich knew of Ludwig. He was Gilbert's younger brother, who was still serving on the front lines. He hadn't written home for a while, an anomaly for him, although Gilbert constantly assured his grandfather that his younger brother was doing well. Still, even Roderich was able to catch the tone of uncertainty in his voice.

Halfway through a reassuring sentence, Gilbert's voice caught, and didn't resume. A sound reached Roderich's ears that confused him initially, but then he recognized it to be muffled sobbing.

Horror crossed his face at realizing how painful this situation was for the wounded German. Soldiers died all the time on the front lines, would they be informed if something had happened to his brother before they gathered it for themselves?

Gilbert had to try to convince his grandfather of something he couldn't know himself, not unless the received a letter. But, according to Elizabeta, he didn't even request to see the mail anymore. Roderich wondered if he was giving up hope; it felt like it was a thing that was hard for everyone to hold on to now.

Eventually, he receded from the edge of the hallway and made his way upstairs. He had a strange notion to try to comfort the normally irritating man, but he wasn't entirely sure how. As he retired to his bedroom, he slowly reasoned that he might express such a feeling in his own way.

* * *

The next day, he played a selection of softer pieces with sweeter, smoother melodies. He hoped it would help soothe the painful feelings in the house.

Gilbert eventually arrived into the main room, and for a moment he was utterly silent, but then he spoke.

"It's too early for that shit," he grumbled irritably. "Knock it off."

His tone gave him pause, long enough for him to turn at the bench just enough so their eyes met. They didn't often look at each other, and when they did, the room instantly felt tense. This time, however, Gilbert looked back at him in a different way. He wasn't smug, nor appearing pleased that he succeeded in halting the flow of the music. He looked strangely serious, and for the first time, he saw in Gilbert a man of war.

Roderich slowly removed his hands from the ivory keys and placed them silently in his lap.

Gilbert huffed, but didn't say anything more. He didn't taunt or mock him; he simply maneuvered the chair around, and returned to his room. Roderich didn't see him for the rest of the day.

So much for trying to help, he thought with a sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

**[First] Author's Note:** As I warned at the beginning, there's a character death. It shouldn't be a big surprise, and it's not long, but it happens at the end of this chapter, so I just thought I'd post a quick warning.

* * *

He was a weird bastard, that was for sure. Roderich moved about the house as though he were lord over everything he saw. Gilbert had seen peacocks walk with more humility. And that wasn't even the worst part.

Sometimes, when Gilbert wasn't in the middle of insulting him, Roderich would look at him with the most profound expression of understanding he had ever seen. It was as though he could have told him anything, things from the darkest parts of his mind, and he would have understood. It irritated Gilbert to have a stranger looked at him so, with those stunning purple eyes that seemed so open and honest.

What did he want? He obviously didn't want Gilbert's friendship; he looked down his nose at him every chance he got. And yet, after the night he had broken down and cried at his grandfather's bedside, it was almost as though the damned Austrian had intended to comfort him. Not that he spoke to him, they still didn't exchange many words, but Gilbert could have sworn he had purposely played nicer music.

The house was small, there was hardly any privacy, but even if he had heard him crying that night, and if the music had been to comfort him, Gilbert figured he would have exposed it when he ordered him to stop. Yet, Roderich had turned, stared, and then removed his hands from the keys without a word. He had looked at him with that same expression on his far-too-delicate face, which seemed to promise him a confidant. Gilbert had left the room quickly.

Was it possible that he was just playing some sick game? Gilbert shook his head and sighed. Maybe being in his room so much was messing with his mind. Even as a kid he never spent too much time alone; it made him feel weird. Which led to weird thoughts. He figured he would just go and sit with the Austrian and see what he did. If he was just trying to mess with him, Gilbert would find out. If nothing else, it would give him something to do.

* * *

The music had already begun by the time Gilbert had made it to the main room. He was starting to wonder if Roderich just slept at the piano. He didn't turn as Gilbert wheeled himself into the room, but he knew he was well aware of him. Gilbert didn't recognize the piece he was playing, but secretly, he found it rather pleasant. Again, it had a softer melody, and it was slower, sweeter.

Gilbert moved himself over to sit beside the window. There had once been a chair there where Gilbert had often liked to sit on days when he was stuck inside, but Elizabeta had moved it for him. Not much happened on the quiet streets that he could see, but it was always better than watching the walls and frozen paintings.

As the music continued, Gilbert noticed a bird flying over the rooftops. It was probably some type of kestrel. As he continued to watch it soar on the cold winds, he absently thought that somehow the music seemed to fit perfectly to its movements. Gilbert risked a glance towards the piano, but Roderich had his eyes closed as he played. He frowned a little, but turned back towards the window in time to see the bird spread its majestically pale wings, and swoop down to perch precariously on the sharp ridge of a nearby roof.

It wasn't until then, when Roderich sat back and sighed, that Gilbert realized he had listened to the entire piece without saying a word. This sudden notion caused him slight panic, leaving him to draw a blank for something to say. Something that wasn't about birds or how much he had actually enjoyed the music. However, Roderich seemed indifferent to the fact that he hadn't spoken yet, and so after a moment, Gilbert wheeled a bit closer, and looked over his shoulder.

Roderich was shuffling through his sheet music, and Gilbert squinted at the strange markings and symbols.

"Can you read music?" Roderich asked suddenly.

His voice was so soft, hardly more than a whisper, as though he hadn't prepared himself before speaking.

Gilbert stared in bewilderment for a moment, caught off guard, but when Roderich glanced at him over the rims of his glasses, he shook his head.

"Nah," he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling strangely embarrassed. "They tried to teach us a little in school, but I was never very good at it,"

Roderich's mouth twitched a little, he might have hummed disapprovingly, but he refrained from scoffing at him. There was another moment of silence while Roderich flipped through a few more pages until he settled on one. Gilbert looked it over and arched an eyebrow. He had no idea what any of it meant.

"It looks like a totally different language," he mumbled.

The Austrian raised his slender eyebrows and glanced at him again, those violet eyes glinting in the pale light from the window. "Music is a universal language."

Gilbert considered this quietly, but then frowned. "…I thought that was mathematics,"

Roderich gave him the first annoyed expression of the day. The German couldn't help it; he grinned.

"What?"

Several hours passed with a rapidness that Gilbert had almost forgotten. Since he had come home, he had been made painfully aware of each passing minute, but it wasn't until Elizabeta was suddenly serving dinner that he realized that it was already well into the evening. She seemed surprised to see them sitting together in the same room peacefully, but when asked, Roderich denied that Gilbert had been serving as a good audience. In his own defense, Gilbert pointed out the fact that listening to pieces as long as the ones Roderich insisted on playing warranted the need to rely on himself for entertainment.

"Unless, it's alright for me to nap while you play," Gilbert smirked.

"It is not!" he cried, his slender fingers curling into a harmless fist

He snickered. "Yeah, I guess you're right Specs. Awful noises like that would lead to nightmares."

Elizabeta slapped the back of his head as she passed, heading down the hall with a sigh. Gilbert whined, rubbing where he'd been hit. She was a hell of a lot stronger than she looked.

Roderich had stopped spluttering angrily, and instead looked lightly amused.

"What?" Gilbert demanded.

"Nothing." he said innocently, but he saw the smallest smirk on his lips as he turned to his food.

"Damn right nothing," he mumbled.

But as he ate, Gilbert vaguely thought that he rather liked the way his eyes softened when the musician smiled. He thought it might have reminded him of something, but before he could honestly think about it, he quickly shut the thought down. He wasn't thinking about Roderich's eyes again. They were just weird. Not that he was thinking about them.

* * *

That night, just as Gilbert was about to begin his journal entry for the day, Elizabeta entered suddenly and without knocking.

Her green eyes were opened wide despite the lines of tiredness under them, and her hair was in a wild mess, but as soon as their eyes met, he knew why.

Without a word from either of them, she helped him back into the wheelchair and took him down the hallway to his grandfather's room. The second they crossed the threshold, the air seemed heavier. His grandfather was lying just as he had since Gilbert came home, but something about it was making Gilbert's throat constrict.

The older man coughed hard, wheezing heavily as he tried to breathe, and then his head tipped to the side.

When his eyes opened, they couldn't seem to find Gilbert for a moment, and his hand opened blindly as if to reach for him. He took his hand firmly and leaned closer, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. In something of a panic, he looked to Elizabeta, but she just looked away. There was nothing else they could do.

"Gil?" his grandfather rasped, his hand weakly clasping his.

"I'm here," he told him quickly, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Where's Ludwig?" he asked.

He tried twice to swallow, but couldn't. "He…He's safe,"

"Where's my grandson?" he asked, his eyes losing focus slowly.

_I'm here,_ he wanted to say again, but that's not what his grandfather was asking.

"He'll be home soon." Gilbert said, his voice choking until he was practically whispering.

"I wish I could have seen him one last time," his eyes began to close. "I would have told him to stay home. I wouldn't have let him go."

His grandfather's hand began to fall limp, even as he struggled to hold it tight. A shot of terror bolted through him.

"Grandfather?" he gasped loudly, and then tears began to sting his eyes as his hand lost its strength completely. "Oh God, no,"

Elizabeta walked to him quickly, putting her hands on his shoulders as he bent and pressed the lifeless knuckles to his forehead. Gilbert sobbed, not bothering to hold back. It didn't matter now.

Regardless of the facts, Gilbert realized that a part of him had honestly expected his grandfather to survive. To recover. To someday get up out of bed and irritably order him to clean the house. To be with him when the war ended and everyone came home. It seemed that only now he was realizing all of that had simply been wishful thinking.

No one in the house slept that night. And yet, somehow, it still felt like it was all a dream. A nightmare. Unreal.

He knew better, but that was how it felt. Pretty music wouldn't help now.

* * *

**[Second****]**** Author's Note: **So, yeah, some good news and some bad news.

Bad news first, I'm sorry about the slow updates, I was hoping they'd be coming faster, but unfortunately, I've recently been diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome in both hands (listen when people tell you to practice good writing posture!) And, I won't be able to get in for surgery for a little while, maybe a month, so things will have to slow down until then.

The good news, though, is that once my hands are fixed, it won't hurt to write anymore (at least, that's the idea) and so I'll be able to write more, and write it faster. So, silver linings and whatnot.

Anyway, thank you for reading this far and please stay tuned, I promise I'll update as soon as I can.


	6. Chapter 6

It was dark. Impossibly dark. And close. Gilbert felt as though he were in a very tight, confining space, but that if he reached out, he wouldn't be able to touch whatever was confining him. A sick, slow panic began to snake around his throat, making his breaths come thinner and faster. He couldn't remember if he was lost, or if he had been aware of exactly where he was. Feeling his brain being steadily depraved of oxygen by his hyperventilation, Gilbert forced himself to open his eyes, terrified of what he might see, but that particular terror was overturned by the awful anxiety of being blinded to what might come.

As soon as the image came into focus, his lips pulled back from his teeth as his mouth flew opened in a silent scream. The inky darkness had fled to the edges of his vision, allowing the vision before him to take on a nightmarish white. A white hallway. He couldn't stop trying to scream, to cry for help, to just turn away and not look, but he could only stand still with his mouth agape, his air being forcibly squeezed from his lungs.

Had Gilbert been able to step out of himself and examine this situation, he would have perhaps thought that a hallway, albeit a very creepily white hallway, was not honestly that terrifying. Especially since this particular hall was one he had seen countless times in his life. Although it was distorted and discolored, he knew this hall by heart. His bedroom was the first door on the right, after that there was a linen closet. Directly across the hall was the bathroom, the only door on that side. In the hallway he was now staring at, all the doors were shut, including the door at the very end of the hall. The only thing different about this last door was, though it was mostly closed, Gilbert could see that it was not fully shut to the doorframe. It was opened just a crack.

His heart began to hammer in his chest at this vision. The door was supposed to be shut. Locked. The key tossed out the fucking window. And yet, he could see the darker outline on one side, indicating that it had opened fractionally. Who had done that? Was he supposed to shut it?

Without permission, his feet began to carry him down the hallway, which began to stretch away from him, like a mirage. As each door passed, however, he was able to see the various dents and scratches in the walls that he and Ludwig had left from when they were younger. With each new mark he noticed, the bright hallway began to darken, and the white walls began to appear smudged with dirt and rot as though neglected for years.

The fear that was steadily consuming Gilbert from the inside out was changing. Forsaking his want to find out anything more about that damned door, he attempted to reverse directions. He was not able to turn around, feeling almost like he was being held at the shoulders and forced to face forwards, but he did manage to stop. When he looked to the end of the hall again, he expected to see the door far away in the distance, still stretching impossibly to get away from him. Instead, he found he was so close to it that his boots were nearly on the threshold, and that his nose was nearly touching the rotted, warped wood.

Another silent scream was choked back by his lack of air, and the sheer horror of being so closed to this ominous, abnormally large structure prevented him from drawing another breath. Gilbert's eyes were wide with his terror, and when they looked down upon the doorknob, the normally smooth metal was tarnished and deformed. But that wasn't what he noticed. Instead, his eyes were frozen to something that was not there. The lock, the heavy, metal lock was gone as though it had been clawed out of the wood by nails. Only darkness filled the awkward hole, and there was nothing to forcibly hold the door shut now.

Slowly, but too quickly for Gilbert to stop it, the door swung open on its rusty hinges. He faced the darkness of his grandfather's room. The smell that wafted from this void was even more wretched than what he had been forced to breathe on the battlefield. This was the smell of something that had been rotting for _years_.

Then, something inside the room moved. Blankets rustled, and something thumped to the floor.

The terror that filled his body was too much, it overwhelmed him. He could _not_ see what was in there, he just couldn't. He couldn't stand to know. He would die first.

Finally, Gilbert screamed.

The noise tore him away from the darkness, from the door, and out of the horrifying hallway. He awoke when he was thrust back into his bed, sweating and still screaming as his chest heaved powerfully. Pain and fear mixed in his chest, and when it dropped to the pit of his stomach, Elizabeta burst into his room just in time to see him vomit over the side of the bed.

"Gilbert," she spoke in a whisper that he didn't hear.

He wanted to keep screaming, but the bile in his mouth and throat silenced him except for his gurgling and gasping.

The brunette approached him, careful to avoid the vomit, and patted his back with a hard hand until he had coughed and spat most of the bitterness out, and was able to draw in a clean breath. She didn't say anything for a while. She simply left to get him some water to wash the taste out and to clean the floor with, and then she lit a single candle by his bed without a word and sat on the bed to hold his hand.

Any other time, Gilbert would have wanted to be alone, or he would have denied the need for her to stay with him, but he found himself clutching tightly to her hand, his knuckles turning white while he tried to remember how to breathe steadily.

Just when it seemed Elizabeta was about to speak, the door was pushed open a bit, and a pair of purple eyes met Gilbert's.

The three of them just stared at each other in silence for a few minutes, and then Roderich took a timid step into the room.

"Is everything alright?" he was whispering too, but Gilbert heard him.

Elizabeta looked at Gilbert as he slowly released her hand.

"Yeah, Specs, everything's all good." he tried to raise his voice louder than a whisper, but it was sore from the vomit, and the screaming.

His concerned face twitched in annoyance at the nickname, and Gilbert almost could have smiled.

"Are you sick?" he pressed, his arms moving like he would have folded them if his cousin hadn't fixed him with a stern look.

Gilbert rubbed the back of his neck, his stomach still feeling unsettled. "Nah. Probably just, you know, food poisoning."

Elizabeta gasped in offence, and he shielded his face, but she didn't hit him. A part of him didn't like that. Was he pitiful now?

Roderich scoffed in the doorway. "I doubt that,"

"Everything's fine. Go back to bed, Roderich," Elizabeta suggested, although both men knew it was an order to be followed without question.

He nodded to her, but as he turned, his eyes met Gilbert's once more, and he saw those deeply purple orbs flash with concern behind his spectacles. Something stirred inside of him, but it was hard to identify with nausea accounting for most of his inward feelings.

Elizabeta waited to speak again until Roderich's light feel could be heard climbing the stairs.

"Do you think you can sleep? I don't mind staying," she told him gently, trying to offer help without offending his pride.

Her efforts didn't go unnoticed, but Gilbert was just too proud. Always had been.

"I can sleep," he mumbled meeting her eyes despite his want to look away when her stare hardened in an attempt to get an admittance of truth from him.

When he didn't break eye contact, she eventually sighed and nodded, standing from the bed quietly and walking around to the door after readjusting the blankets over him.

"Gilbert?" she paused at the door, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Yeah?" he looked over at her as he settled back down into the bed.

"Tomorrow…we should talk about, arrangements. It's your house now, after all." she swallowed as she spoke.

The contents of Gilbert's unsettled stomach chilled a bit, but he just nodded. "Alright."

She nodded back, looking like she might have said more, but instead just left him with that single candle that had been left lit, and shut the door behind her.

He might have protested a nightlight, but he certainly wouldn't tonight. Even the faint darkness in the corners of his room made him fearful. So, in an attempt to lull himself back to sleep, he stared directly into the single flame of the candle beside him. He tried to let himself be comforted by remembering old stories about angels with flaming swords, who fought demons and evil things of darkness, but those stories felt so far away. If Elizabeta had stayed with him, she might have told him one of those old stories again, she knew they comforted him because she had listened to his grandfather tell them. At least his grandfather had remembered that about him, even if he didn't remember it at the very end.

No, if she would have stayed, Gilbert decided he would have talked to her about his little brother. He missed Ludwig, he worried about him. It was hard to get news about the war that wasn't just propaganda, and when Gilbert had been fighting, the German soldiers had been advancing so fast. Where would he go to hide? Where _could_ he go, to escape the battles of a global war?

Elizabeta would have comforted him, even if she couldn't honestly assure him of his brother's safety. Maybe he needed that, though. But it was his damned pride that said he didn't need the comfort of another. He knew his pride would damn him before long.

The candle burned low, but the gentle light remained with him through the rest of the night. It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the puddle of wax swallowed the fire, and by then the dull morning light was entering in through the window. That was when Gilbert was finally able to sleep again. The nightmares wouldn't come while the sky was light. From now on, his battles would be to get through the darkness with his sanity intact.

* * *

The following morning, closer to noon than sunrise so Gilbert could get more sleep, they took breakfast in the kitchen for once. It was a rare sight anymore, but he remembered his grandfather forcing Ludwig and Gilbert to behave and sit at the table if they were going to get their meals. Elizabeta moved the regular chair so that he could sit in his normal spot. She was like that; so kind to him, but in silent ways.

They ate quietly for most of their meal, but eventually Elizabeta swallowed, and cleared her throat. Gilbert and Roderich both raised their heads to look at her.

"It was your grandfather who invited both of us to stay, but, we are both prepared to leave if you say." she told him, her back straight and her eyes meeting his fearlessly.

Straightforward. More so than anyone Gilbert had ever met, even Ludwig.

Still, it was a serious decision. He took his time eyeing them both, especially Roderich. He was a danger. But, he knew that if Roderich went, Elizabeta would go with him, and although he had been healing, it was a slow process, and there was no way he could run the house on his own. He couldn't even get over the threshold to the front door by himself.

"You can stay," he shifted a little, and then glanced up at both of them before looking back down at his food. "Both of you."

Elizabeta and Roderich exchanged a hesitant look that he couldn't help but to notice. Yet, she wasn't going to ask Gilbert if he was sure, or if he wanted more time to think it through. He said what he meant, and he would stick to it. As of now, Roderich was to remain in the house for protection. Maybe, at the end of the war, things would be different.

The conversation proceeded timidly, with long pauses and implied endings to sentences. It was slowly reasoned that Elizabeta would have to get a job working with another household, but that she would help here in the evenings when she came home. Gilbert would be forced to remain in doors with Roderich, and they would do as much of the house work as they could each day she left. Gilbert felt that if they could just get through this coming winter, it would mean something for all of them.

Roderich quietly agreed to most of everything that was established, but the surprised expression he made when Elizabeta informed him it would be up to him to help Gilbert and to clean and cook while she was gone was priceless. She asked if he knew how to cook when he continued to look stunned, and Gilbert finally laughed. He glared, but sniffed and informed them that he did in fact know how to cook. It seemed he wanted to protest, but there was nothing to be done about it, even if any of them had wanted it to be different. This was just how it would have to be for a while.

When Roderich continued to look mad at him, however, Gilbert shrugged and tried to smile at him. "Hey, better you than me. My cooking would kill us."

He looked shocked by his words, and didn't laugh, but Elizabeta did. She just knew it was true.

When Roderich and Elizabeta looked at each other again, Gilbert saw faint smiles. They all needed something from each other, he supposed. Elizabeta needed a home, Roderich needed somewhere to hide, and Gilbert…he just needed not to be left alone. Not now. Maybe after some time passed, but for now, even the thought of Elizabeta leaving during the day was potentially alarming. He found himself comforted by the fact that Roderich would remain with him in the house all day. The man was still hardly more than a stranger to him, but they shared the fact they would both be forcibly restrained within the walls of the house for the next few months at least, and Gilbert let this secretly comfort him.

After all, according to Elizabeta, the man hadn't actually even born that far away. How different could they really be?

* * *

It was less than a week before Elizabeta found a job with another family. She was good at what she did and she was charming. Anyone would be a complete moron not to hire her, but there was always the fear of letting a stranger into your home. In regards to strangers, for his part, Gilbert eyed Roderich when he thought he wasn't looking.

He wasn't used to him. He felt like he wasn't even _getting_ used to him. By choice, Gilbert usually surrounded himself with people who were more like himself: reckless, enthusiastic about life, loud. The loudest thing Roderich did was playing the piano. Gilbert roamed as best he could while Roderich played, but there was nothing else to do in the small house. So, he often found himself stationed not far behind Roderich's bench, trying to get him to lose focus.

Talking while he was playing was strictly out of the question. Roderich had at once informed him that he was very well acquainted with wheelchairs, and that if Gilbert ever spoke while he was playing again, he would remove the wheels and leave him stranded facing the corner until Elizabeta returned home. Gilbert had scoffed loudly, but even so, he didn't speak while Roderich was playing anymore. He had plenty to say afterwards and before, and this irked the Austrian, but obviously not as much. Perhaps it meant something different to the musician, to have him speak while he should be listening. Gilbert wasn't about to ask him, he was in the middle of a lengthy piece.

This particular composition was becoming familiar. Gilbert occasionally tried to make a point of not listening, but, contrary to Roderich's accusations, he was no barbarian. The complex, flowing music did occasionally win him over, and he would sit quietly with his eyes closed or turned towards the window while the melodies swept through the room.

Roderich's playing was flawless. Sometimes he referred to this activity as "practicing", but Gilbert couldn't spot a single mistake in his fluid movements. He was hesitant to actually watch him play, until he realized, with a disbelieving gasp, that Roderich played with his eyes mostly closed. Gilbert, embarrassed that sometimes he couldn't even perform memorized tasks with his eyes closed, watched in awe until the piece ended with a few seemingly lazy movements of his right hand, and then Roderich's eyes reopened. Feeling as though he was still under the spell of the music, Gilbert didn't avert his gaze, and the man sitting before him eventually cast a cautious glance towards him.

Purple eyes. Gilbert wanted to stare into those eyes until he had them memorized. And he had every intention to, until Roderich blinked, and looked away. Only then was Gilbert shocked enough to realize how hard he had been staring at him. There was even a faint blush upon Roderich's pale cheeks, and Gilbert's eyes widened for fear he had offended him worse than speaking while he was playing.

There was a testing silence.

Roderich's gaze eventually returned to him, and he tilted his head. "Did you enjoy the piece?"

He blinked stupidly as they resumed staring at each other. The light blush faded quickly and was replaced by an eyebrow quirked up in annoyance. For some reason it made Gilbert feel like smiling, and he managed to clear his throat and bring his mind back from wherever it had been.

"Uh, sure." he tried to shrug nonchalantly, assuming that the Austrian would be upset that he wasn't moved and awed by the composition.

However, he didn't begin to scold him. Instead, he simply tossed his dark hair, his eyes closing and reopening almost in slow motion.

"It's a start then." he said simply and turned back to the ivory keys.

Gilbert stared in surprise at the dark coat covering his back.

"A start for _what_?" he demanded.

Roderich might have chuckled, or maybe he was hearing things, but before he could decide the musician quickly flipped the page and began another song without giving him an answer.

Angry that his plan to irritate Roderich had backfired, he sighed loudly, but moved away when the Austrian's eyebrow quirked back up. He wheeled himself over to the bookcase. There wasn't a single book on it he hadn't read. Except for the massive, dusty tomes on the very bottom shelf. Gilbert couldn't even remember what they were about, he only remembered that he had once asked his grandfather why they were there, and had been told that they were being used as a weight to keep the bookshelf from tipping over.

He scanned the familiar titles without interest. However, after a few more minutes, Roderich stopped playing and let out a sharp breath of annoyance.

Had he made a mistake? Gilbert hadn't heard anything that sounded out of place. He glanced behind him to see the dark haired man irritably sifting through his sheet music.

"Lose your place?" Gilbert inquired, maybe with a hint of honest curiosity, but it sounded more like a taunt than anything, and when the Austrian's head whipped up and glowered at him, that was apparently exactly how he took it.

The anger in his eyes cooled to embers, and flicked from him to the bookshelf.

"Trying to entertain yourself with literature won't work if you can't read." he scoffed.

Gilbert laughed at the prissiness of that insult, absently yanking one of the books off the shelf and examining it. "Books are good for lots other things than reading. Like for projectiles."

"You wouldn't dare!" he snapped at him as though he were a disobedient child.

Hell, maybe that was all he'd ever been.

"Wouldn't I?" he winked, grinning widely before cracking the book open and scanning the pages as though he did in fact intend to read it, rather than, say, throw it at the musician's head when he wasn't looking.

The heat of Roderich's glare was burning the side of his face. It made him want to grin impossibly wider. Something about pissing him off cheered Gilbert up. In a weird kind of way, he was sure he'd answer for that someday.

But, today was not that day, so he even began to hum a light tune while he continued feign-reading the book in his lap finally. When Gilbert's falsely peacefully act unnerved Roderich completely, he sighed loudly in aggravated defeat, throwing his hands up theatrically, and then stood up and walked out of the room and into the kitchen.

"I'm making lunch." he huffed as he walked passed him.

Gilbert did his best to hold his composure until the musician had stormed out, but then he laughed loud enough for the neighbors to hear. He quietly thought to himself that he might actually like having someone like Roderich stuck in the house with him all day. If he had teased someone like Elizabeta or his brother this much, he would have gotten hit by now, even with his injured leg still healing.

That thought forced him to sigh when his amusement subsided. He stared down at his legs, one of which was wrapped up in a blanket for the lack of pants, and the other which was wrapped up in bandages still. More than anything, he wanted to stretch them out, the muscles ached as they slowly came undone. Gilbert had spent the better part of the previous night poking at his good leg, which had once been nearly solid with thick muscles, and was now rather squishy and weak-looking. As soon as he could stand, he would exercise every day so he wouldn't have to be on crutches for very long. The wheelchair was bad enough.

The thought crossed his mind that the man who shot him was still probably fighting the good fight on the field without him, but that thought came unexpectedly coupled with the notion that he could very well be dead by now. It had been a while since Gilbert had come home, and there was no such thing as a safe place on a battlefield.

Gilbert shook his head, not really wanting to think about that now, and sighed again, this time at the book he had been using as a prop. It was boring. He had read it before, and even then, he had never really liked it. So, he set it back on the shelf and maneuvered himself around. He rolled to the window, a new habit of his, checking to see if anything had changed within the last few hours. Nothing. The trees were bare and dead-looking. He used to tell Ludwig that they slept through the winter and that if he kicked them hard enough they'd wake up and be so mad they would try to eat him. Even to up to the day they were preparing to leave, his little brother never so much as nudged a tree without its leaves.

Noticing that the noises from the kitchen had stopped, Gilbert moved away from the window and headed into the kitchen to investigate. As he entered, he saw that the food was still halfway made, but that Roderich was sitting down at the table, staring at the floor.

"Oi, Specs," he called.

His head jerked up, his dark hair ruffling as he quickly turned to look at him, pushing his glasses farther up his nose and coughing in surprise.

"What?" he awkwardly snapped at him.

"Er, what's wrong?" he asked, rolling the wheelchair over the threshold slowly as to bring himself fully into the room.

Roderich looked away, holding his right arm with his left hand, almost like a shy child. "It's…nothing."

Gilbert glanced at the counter where he had been preparing lunch, looking for signs of anything that had gone wrong. But no, there was no blood or knives, or anything hot for him to have burned himself on. There was no mess on the table or floor indicating he had dropped anything. Had he been wounded at all? Gilbert didn't spot anything dangerous, but the way the Austrian sat, forsaking his normally rigid posture to slump over himself slightly, his legs together and one of his arms holding his body, convinced the German soldier that he was injured.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked, his voice a bit stronger.

Sometimes, there were soldiers who wouldn't tell anyone when they were wounded. They would try to fix it themselves, or would just hide it under their clothes. Infections spread faster that way, but it was always the soldier who suffered the most. If they didn't die, sometimes doctors would have to amputate entire limbs just because of a cut or burn. Gilbert was no doctor, but he couldn't help Roderich at all if he didn't tell him what was wrong.

And yet, he remained silent, and continued to stare at an invisible point between his shoes.

Then it occurred to Gilbert that perhaps he hadn't injured himself, but perhaps he was sick. The cold months in Germany could be harsh, even for people who had lived there their entire lives, and Roderich had come from places farther south. Perhaps he wasn't accustomed yet.

"Do you have a fever?" he pressed, moved even closer enough he was within range to simply reach out and feel his forehead himself.

He began to raise his hand when there was no answer, but then Roderich sat up a bit and shook his head.

"No, no, it's not like that," he muttered, still forcefully avoiding eye contact.

Gilbert frowned. "Well, what is it then? Are you sick?"

Roderich suddenly took a deep breath and drew himself up to full height, putting him back into his normal posture as his hands folded in his lap and his feet flattened on the floor.

"No. I am not sick." he said pointedly, again adjusting his glasses on his nose. "But, I was."

"…You, were sick? Did making lunch make you sick?" he asked, confused.

He shook his head. "I was sick a long time ago. Years and years ago."

Gilbert just stared with his eyebrows furrowed, since obviously he wasn't good at this guessing game.

For a while, it seemed like he had no intention of tell him what had happened, but when Gilbert made no move to leave, he swallowed and glanced at him.

"I was in a wheelchair for a few years when I was younger." he said and then turned his face away, as if expecting scorn.

Gilbert simply raised his eyebrows.

_Years?_

He could hardly stand being confined to the device for a few months. Gilbert couldn't imagine not being able to walk for years.

As he thought about this, however, he realized that Roderich _had_ mentioned being knowledgeable about wheelchairs. He also sat much more than he stood or walked, and Elizabeta had made a dismissive comment about his inability to clean very much. He had assumed this was because he avoided these things by choice, but, perhaps he was simply too weak?

His expression must have conveyed his conclusion because when Roderich eventually turned back and looked at him again, he just nodded solemnly.

Gilbert coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm, sorry. Don't worry about lunch or anything, I can reach-"

Roderich tilted his head to the side slightly, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. "I can still make us lunch, it just takes me a while, sometimes."

"Then, I'll stay," he told him, looking back at the counter when Roderich's eyes began to soften. "You know, to make sure you don't ruin the food or anything."

To his credit, the Austrian gasped in an offended manner, which reestablished the normal mood between them. He then stood and went back to the counter, preparing food in the same fashion that he played music in; his hands moving smoothly and fluently as he worked, as if he were continuously creating art. But this time, Gilbert noticed that as he finished, his hands were shaking as though he had lifted something heavy. He frowned, and decided that he would help more with the housework, not that he would say anything about it.

They ate together at the kitchen table. Gilbert complained that the food was gross, Roderich complained that Gilbert was gross, and all together their meal was a pleasant one. After that, it became something of a routine for Gilbert to wait in the kitchen while Roderich cooked. If he had to sit down to rest, the wounded soldier made no comment about it. Instead, he made an effort to distract him, occasionally going as far as to ask about pieces he had heard him play earlier in the day. Roderich was utterly convinced that listening to his music would help Gilbert heal, which made him roll his eyes.

However, even _if_ he had maybe begun to enjoy more of what Roderich played, the music was gaining attention beyond the two of them, and outside their door was a darkening world.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hello all! Sorry about the long delay, but, as it turned out, there's nothing the doctor's can do for my hands, so I just have to take it easy with my writing. I'll still be updating this story, and I figure I can keep up with a chapter every couple of weeks at least, and these chapters will be longer and a bit more fleshed out. However, feel free to let me know if you see any mistakes or weirdness, I try to check everything over as best I can, but being in pain slaughters my attention span for proofreading. Anyway, the point is, I'll try to keep the updates coming faster, so thank you all for being so patient!


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